FRUSTRATION

 

Have you ever had a good day suddenly turn into frustration?  Today was one of those days.  It started before my trip to Sam’s in Tuscaloosa, but it was at Sam’s trying to find some apple blossom antibacterial dishwashing detergent that major frustration reared its ugly head.

I don’t think the powers that be for Walmart and Sam’s really know how frustrating their constant changing of product locations is for employees and customers.  Then again, they my get their kicks from doing such things.

I remember trying to find some dried cherries, which are good for arthritis.  One would think that dried cherries would be in the fruit section of Walmart.  Wrong!  They are located next to flour products.

One Christmas on the way to Gulf Shores, I was instructed to stop at the Foley Walmart and buy some cranberry sauce.  I looked high and low to no avail.  I finally asked a lady shopper if she new where they may have hidden it, but she did not know.  I asked a Walmart associate, but she did not know.  I was just about frustrated enough to buy fresh cranberries and crush them myself but another lady over heard my dilemma and told me where I could find the cranberry sauce.  Once again, it was a secret Walmart area.

Webster’s dictionary defines frustrate as “prevent from succeeding, keep from doing, or being a failure.”  The Greek word for frustrate is ekkopto meaning, “to cut off, to cut out.”

I remember being in a “Take Two” safety class where the facilitator asked for the definition of frustration.  I said, “Mill room.”  Everyone in the class agreed.

Gerald, the facilitator asked, “What’s the mill room?”

The mill room housed six finish mills for grinding a mixture of clinkers, limestone, and gypsum to make cement and mortar mix.  Clinkers are limestone, sand, and iron ore ground and then cooked in a kiln.

The mills were large tubular cylinders filled with three-inch steel balls spinning round and round.  The mill room was loud and dusty.  Everyday laborers went into the mill to sweep, pile, shovel, and push wheel barrels of cement waste and dust that leaked or spilled from the mills, discharge chutes, and pipes.  One could never see any progress.  The waste and dust were the same after a few minutes.  Everyday was the same.  Every day was the same!

The mill room was busy work since each employee was guaranteed forty hours each week.  Anytime someone’s job was down, off to the mill room with earplugs, respirators, hardhat, safety glasses, a shop broom, number two flat shovel, and wheel barrel.  Everyday same job, same result.  FRUSTRATION.

Now, back to Sam’s.  My buggy pulled to the right.  I constantly had to push harder on the right side.  I put five gallons of hydraulic fluid on the left side, but it still pulled right.  I put a large container of All liquid detergent on top of the fluid and it still pulled right.  I went up and down aisle after aisle trying to find the Palmolive detergent.  I did some more shopping and returned another time across the store fighting the right determined minded buggy to find the Palmolive detergent.  I could not fine a Sam associate.  I guess someone placed them in an obscure place.

I fought my way to the checkout line.  The cashier said I could keep everything in the buggy.  I gave her my Sam’s card.  Guess what?  She told me that my membership card had not been renewed and that I would have check with Customer Service.

At Customer Service, there were five people ahead of me.  I waited patiently trying to figure out how to find apple blossom Palmolive dishwashing detergent.

Finally, a young girl behind the counter asked if she could help.  I told her that the cashier said I needed to update my membership card.  He checked and told me that the membership fee had not been paid.  I assured her it had she said it had not.  After a frustrating moment with her, I paid the fee only to find that now there were three large carts filled to capacity in my line.

When I got back to the office the secretary gave me the information where the membership had been paid.  I called Sam’s customer service and talked with a representative.  I just thought I was frustrated.  She said that if I would bring back the receipt or a copy of where we paid the bill, that customer service would give me the money.  I informed her that it was not my fault and that she could promptly credit our card so I would not have to make the trip back to Tuscaloosa.

When I think about it, it is the evil one trying to kill my joy and hinder my thoughts before I preach at a revival that night.  This frustration too shall pass.  I get to have my say Monday with the Customer Service manager who was conveniently out of town. 

Monday I could use the Scripture and use ekkopto as found in Matthew 5:30a, but it would not be my right hand.  And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off . . .

So, until Monday, my thoughts will be on Exodus 14:14.

The Lord shall fight for you, and ye shall hold your peace.

 

What sends you into panic mode?

I hate to admit it, but I go into panic mode on occasion.  It is said that confession is good for the soul.  I say that it is bad for the ego.  My coworkers once said that I was Mr. Cool when trouble was raging.  What they did not know was I was just as scared as they were.  I could conceal it by pretending to be in control.  If they only knew the truth!

The other day I went into panic mode and it was not a very big event.  I had driven to the local gas station to fill my new zero turn mower with gas.  As I reached to open the tank, I noticed that the right gas cap was missing.  I had checked the gas before leaving home and that’s when the panic started. 

Where was the gas cap?  A new mower and I have already lost one of the two gas caps.  I can’t believe I lost a brand new cap, will they have a new one at Slayton Brothers, will they have to order it, how long will it take, how will I explain to Sharon how a lost the cap, where is it, how can I keep the gas from jumping out, did that mischievous looking young man get my cap while I was not looking, can I find it if I back track my path, did it come off when I left the shed. . .  Did I mention I was about to panic?

After filling both tanks, I borrowed a plastic bag and rubber band from the store clerk and temporarily stopped the hole of the missing cap.  Then in a frantic, not panic, I was calming myself with possible answers to family, friends, the mower salesman, for losing a gas cap.  I backtracked the quarter mile journey back to my shed.  With no gas cap, I retraced my trail back to the store.  I could not enjoy the sweet fragrance of kudzu blooms; they seemed more sickening than refreshing or reassuring.  During the retracing, I saw everything a person could imagine but no gas cap.  I turned around at the store and retraced the path back home again.  Three trips and no cap.

I began a journey of panic recovery.  It was silly of me to panic over a plastic gas cap.  Then, I thought of other times I panicked.  There was the time when my son Aaron, a seven-month-old in a baby car seat locked the car door.  It was December, it was cold, the car was running, and I was trying to get to my college graduation rehearsal.  I imagined the headlines: College graduate so stupid baby dies in locked car from carbon monoxide poisoning.  Yep, I panicked.  I tried to find another key, I picked up a brick to knock out the car window, I googooed and gagaed trying to get Aaron to hit the electric lock again, and I finally decided to break into the car.  I got a clothes hanger, jimmied the car door, and pulled the lock open.

My mind continued race as I returned home and began cutting grass.  I thought about the time I could not find the laptop I had checked out of the Samford Library.  Several of us who were working on our doctorates used laptops to take notes.  I remember having it when I got into the car for the forty-five-minute trip to school.  Where was it, did I put on the top of the car when I loaded my books, did it fall on the driveway, did it fall on the highway, how much will it cost, will it cost me my graduation, will they take a credit card, will I have to work off the payment. . .  All these things raced through my mind as I frantically searched the back seat and the trunk over and over.  When I finally decided to face the music by breaking the bad news to the library, I realized the laptop was in its bag and on my shoulder.  Did you know that laughing at yourself relieves panic?

As I giggled about the laptop, I resolved to bite the bullet and suffer the consequences of losing a cap.  I would tell everyone that I was just a dummy.  It was a trivial and insignificant loss and could happen to anyone over age fifty.  There are more urgent matters, such as adjusting my seat.  The seat belt was hung so I had to step off the mower to make the adjustment.  As I reached between the seat and mower, there was the lost gas cap.  I laughed as I said, “Thank you Jesus.”  I thought that sometimes it is silly what sends us into panic mode.

An anxious heart weighs a man down, but a kind word cheers him up (Proverbs 12:25 NIV).

Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you (I Peter 5:7 NIV).

The Hurt in My Brother's Eye

Several years ago I had compassion for my little brother at a funeral.  It was my little brother’s best friend who had a heart attack at age forty-seven.  All of us were together back in May for a wedding of my nephew, my little brother’s son.  It is sobering remembering that in May we were having a great time singing with the aid of a Deejay with a karaoke machine and in September my brother and I were solemnly singing How Great Thou Are at his best friend’s funeral.

At the funeral I thought about watching my little brother and his friend when they were small.  Sometimes that is how you picture people regardless of their age.  My little brother is six feet four inches tall and weighs @ 250.  He looks like Steve Austin, the professional wrestler.  In fact he has stopped trying to convince people he is not Steve Austin and started signing autographs.  He said it was not worth the trouble.

One of my fondest memories is around the start of school and fall of the year.  My little brother was not old enough to be in school and one day when we got off the school bus he ran to meet us.  We could not wait to get home and pull off our shoes.  Don’t laugh.  We did not wear shoes during the summer so after a long day of new school shoes it was a wonderful to free cramped feet.

We were playing outside and we heard a loud scream.  Momma’s first inclination was kids fighting, but we were all with her except little brother.  Momma ran to find him.  He appeared to be all right so she asked him what was wrong.  He told her that he was okay, but momma told him that he screamed for some reason.

Now, you have to understand our upbringing.  If you got hurt you also got a whuppin’ which is Chiltonian for whipping.  That was life in the hills and hollers of Chilton County.  Don’t tell momma you were hurt.

Momma looked my little brother in the eyes and made a frightening discovery.  His eye was bleeding from four, that’s right, 4 holes in his eyeball.  Blood and other gooey substance were coming from his eye.  Knowing he would get a whuppin’, he refused to say what happened.   After threatening to kill him if he didn’t tell, my little brother “spilled the beans.”

It seems that the day had been cool and momma made him wear some work boots.  When we got home and pulled off our shoes, he wanted to pull off his.  The laces had a knot and somewhere along the way he had learned you could use a fork to pry loose a knot in shoe laces.  Using pressure in an effort to untie the knot, he poked the fork in his eye.  Afraid momma would “whup” him, he pulled it out.

Momma went ballistic.  She called daddy who worked evening shift.  He rushed home and took him to our family doctor, the famous Dr. Joe, my cousin Stevie’s best friend.  Dr. Joe sent daddy to the Eye Foundation Hospital in Birmingham.

This was back before Interstate 65 was complete.  Daddy swung back by the house to tell momma he was headed to Birmingham.  He made the trip of 50 miles in forty-five minutes.  That’s not remarkable now days, but in 1967 on dirt roads, farm to market highways, and old US Highway 31 it is pretty impressive.  Take into consideration that a Montevallo police pulled daddy over, it is pretty extraordinary.

When the officer asked daddy what was the hurry, daddy told my brother to look the policeman in the eye.  The officer told daddy to follow him and escorted our old 1958 Chevrolet Biscayne right to downtown Birmingham.

My little brother’s pupil is oblong and looks like a cat’s eye, but he has perfect vision.  I think often of that fork in his eye.  I noticed him at the funeral as he took a handkerchief and wiped tears.  Once again I saw hurt in my brother’s eye.

And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?  Or how wilt thou say to thy brother, Let me pull out the mote out of thine eye; and, behold, a beam is in thine own eye?  Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother's eye (Matthew 7:3-5 KJV).

Pastors’ Pals: The Honesty of Children

People often ask, “Why did you get out of the ministry?”  I chalk it up as ignorance to what are the ministries of a Director of Missions.  As a pastor people would tease me about not working for a living.  I would tell them if they would get right with God, they could be a pastor.  Others would say, “I wish I had a job where I worked three hours a week.”  I gave the same response.  Get right with God and you will work only three hours a week.  Now as a Director of Missions they pay me not to preach.

When asked what I miss most about being a pastor, I tell them the discipline of sermon preparation, visiting people in the hospital, and the children.  I did make friends with the children of Bethel Baptist Association serving there fourteen years.  I really miss my time at pastors’ pals.

I always had a fun, spiritual, and humorous time sharing the child version of my sermon.  I have had the congregation say that I needed to do the whole sermon like a pastors’ pals.  I could not figure if I was childish or if the congregation’s educational level demanded I do the children’s version.

While at Gallion Baptist Church, I attended an Alabama Baptist State Board of Missions event where the host church had a pamphlet just for children.  It was trifold with a picture of Jesus playing with children.  I brought it back and created my own version.  I downloaded a penciled etching of Jesus playing with the children and pasted it on the front.  The inside was blank except for one line:  This blank page is place you can doodle, draw, or write.  I have some of the drawings in my keepsake stuff.

I have often wondered why Jesus’ twelve disciples tried to keep the children from seeing Jesus and sitting in His lap.  Well, the other day I reminisced about my pastors’ pals and other times I have entertained children.  They are honest, and they listen when you do not think they are.  Two things came to me.  One, they recognized who Jesus was.  Two, they were brutally honest and were willing to share.  I had church members that wanted me to discontinue my pastors’ pals but I am a Rebel and understand the bond of children with their pastor.

One time I was preaching, and I asked a question.  It was not rhetorical.  I wanted feedback.  A little boy answered.  His mother scolded him, then I said, “Please do not scold him.  He answered the question because he was listening.”

I could write a book about the Godly, humorous, and embarrassing responses from my pastors’ pals.  Some of my pals are over thirty years old now.  They remember some of the exciting and wonderful lessons they learned.

I will never forget the threat of a momma one Sunday at Friendship Baptist in Clanton.  Pastors’ pals surrounded me.  The pianist had a special tune which caused them to rush to the stage. This morning was Mother’s Day.  I was talking with them about telling their moms that they loved them. I mentioned something about thanking them for living in nice homes and to do something special for them, such as picking them flowers.

Little Samuel Botts said, “We ain’t got no nice house.”  I said, “You live in a nice home because I have been there.”  His response erupted in congregational laughter and a death threat from his mom who was sitting in the choir.  He said, “It ain’t never clean.”  His momma yelled, Samuel Botts I’m gonna kill you.”  She didn’t.

As I think about him and dozens like him, I understand possibly why the disciples wanted to keep the children away. 

And they brought unto him also infants, that he would touch them: but when his disciples saw it, they rebuked them. But Jesus called them unto him, and said, Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.  Verily I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child shall in no wise enter therein (Luke 18:15-17)

By-the-way, little Samuel Botts, now thirty years old serves on the security team at his church.

"Can't Have a Masterpiece Overnight"

One of my hobbies is woodworking.  I love the smell of sawdust.  I can tell the difference between the smell of pine and red oak, between cherry and Ipe (Brazilian hardwood), and maple and poplar.  The different smells remind me of different times in my life.

Pine rosin dripping from pulpwood reminds me of early mornings in the woods with a stick of pulpwood on my shoulder stumbling toward the truck to load the wood.  I can tell when a pulpwood truck passes the office.  It is an unforgettable aroma.

The smell of fir studs, braces, and headers being cut in the building of a house reminds me of all those homes I helped Mr. Bill Langston build.  Floor joists, ceiling joists, and plywood, being sawed emits another aroma that you know when you smell it that something new is being constructed and family begins life there in excitement.

The smell of a cabinet shop is unique.  I spent many hours building captain beds, baby cradles, cabinets, rocking horses, and dozens of other wooden creations for family and friends.  With every finished product came the want, they tried convince me the need, from friend and stranger to build them something.  They would brag and woo of my beautiful works of art.  Philip Gulley in his book Front Porch Tales says, “A man has to be careful not to let his hobby become his business.”

During an extended layoff from the cement plant, I had to build things to support my income.  In fact, my family peddled my crafts and bartered them at flea markets.  They did well until the economy turned bad. After that, I gave most of my handicrafts to folks as gifts for birthdays, anniversaries, or Christmas presents.

Woodworking is slow and tedious work.  You have to measure twice and cut once.  For a polished finish, there is much sanding and buffing.  You cannot hurry it or flaws will show and your work will be for nothing.  Woodworking is a good way to learn that doing something worthwhile takes longer.  That is something that a hurry up and want it now society cannot appreciate.  When you take the time to do it right, you have something to pass down to your grandchildren.

For some people it is hard for them to see the finished product.  My sister wanted me to build her a home entertainment center.  I went to her mobile home, this is important, to get the dimensions where she wanted it and how she wanted it to look.  My brother sells hardwood.  In fact, I had to call his office to see how to spell Ipe.  I got him to get the wood for our sister.  He gave it to her. 

I spent several days working on this beautiful piece of furniture.  I sawed, assembled, and sanded trying to get the perfect look.  My sister and husband stopped to see the piece.  It was nowhere near completion.  When my brother-in-law saw it, he said, “I don’t want that piece of junk in my house” (mobile home).

I admit I was hurt, just as a mother who has just been told that her baby is ugly is hurt.  I finally realized that my brother-in-law did not see the finished product.  I decided to finish the piece.  I continued to sand, stain, and polyurethane.  I stained it dark walnut and put three coats of Sears’ best semi-gloss polyurethane and it.  It was gorgeous.  I loaded it and carried it down to my sister’s house.  I’m sorry I mean mobile home.  We put it in. My sister did not know what to say.  I told here that I did it for her as a gift.  She did not owe me anything except for the materials.

My brother-in-law could not believe it when he saw it.  His family marveled at the workmanship and the beauty of the piece. He never said anything to me except how people bragged on his home entertainment center.  By the way, it covered a whole wall in his living room.  I never said it to him but my workmanship increased the value of his mobile home when he sold it.

Today’s craftsmanship is sometimes slapped together with people expecting it to last a lifetime.  I do not think that I have ever finished anything I ever built.  I say that because when I finished, I thought it could use a little more sanding here and little more polyurethane there.  I continue to rub stain, lemon oil, or Old English on pieces that I have finished from years ago.

The woodworking principle is true about life.  As Gulley says, “Folks get discouraged because they cannot become saints overnight.”  God has to do a lot of smoothing and a lot of finishing making us His masterpiece.

For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them (Ephesians 2:10 KJV).

Like the old songs goes, “He’s still working on me. . .”

"Sure You Do"

Paul Harvey, in his commentary “The Rest of the Story," tells of a WWII military serviceman stationed in Europe.  He wanted to buy a present for his fiancée.'  He had limited income so he went to a pawnshop to see what he could buy.  Having no luck finding a diamond ring, he bought an amber bracelet for less than two hundred dollars. 

Through the years, the bracelet became a sentimental piece for the couple.  The man decided to do something special for an upcoming anniversary.  He thought it would be nice to have the bracelet restored.  The bracelet had a broken hook. 

He took it to a jeweler to which the jeweler asked if it was for sale.  The man said he wanted it repaired.  The hook broke again so the man took it to another jeweler who asked if it was for sale.  After a third trip to another jeweler, the man received the same query if the bracelet was for sale.  The man said, “Why?”  The jeweler said, “You do not know?”  The man gave him a magnifying glass and said read the inscription.  It was engraved, to Josephine from Napoleon.

While at the University of Montevallo, I took an art class.  Boy did I feel out of place!  I am not an artist when it concerns painting.  The class, the History of Art, was one of the criterions for the Bachelor of Art degree I was earning.  Tommy Karn, my Director of Missions at the time, suggested that if I was going to attend Seminary, that I should get a Liberal of Arts degree.  He said that I should get the degree in something that would aid me to be a bi-vocational pastor.  I elected history and English and my college advisor suggested that I take the History of Art classes. 

I was totally out of place in art.  Everyone and everything there seemed to be in the abstract and I am concrete.  I think being a concrete person had something to do with working at the cement plant. JUST KIDDING!  I felt out of place being a preacher in a class of future Picassos.  I found art history fascinating and learned how to love and appreciate art.

On one occasion, I went to an art exhibit at Bloch Hall, the art building.  Luke, an oriental art student, was the featured artist.  I was amazed at his artwork.  At first, I thought it was some kind of abstract paintings.  The colors were beautiful.  There were bright pinks, whites, blues, and so forth.  They appeared to make no sense.  Each one of the paintings had a title.  I looked at one entitled “Sailing Ship.”  I remember studying the work very carefully trying to see a ship.  It was not there I thought. 

As I looked at it for several minutes, I began to see this beautiful ship with gigantic sails, the ocean, and the clouds.  It was magnificent.  It was one of those paintings that you had to look, then back away, to see the real beauty. 

Now, understanding the style of painting Luke had on display, I went to another titled “Dragon.”  Again, the canvas had these brilliant colors of pink, yellow, and white boldly stroked and spread across it.  I could not wait to find the dragon so exquisitely positioned there.  Suddenly, there was this giant Chinese dragon prancing across the canvas. The artwork was special.  I had never seen such beauty in art.  Everyone in attendance that afternoon commented on the genius and talent of Luke.  Even the president of the University bought a painting that day.

Art History was not the only class I felt a little awkward.  Another was an English poetry class.  Poems have a way of soothing the soul.  David and other Psalmists of the Bible are reminders of the power of poetry.

In this particular class, we examined the poets, their works, and the poem interpretations. Simple poems are really complex and revealing the more that you dig.  One of the things that I lost in the house fire was my notes from this class.  I developed a deep appreciation for poetry and I have written several poems because of the class’s influence.

Having missed a very intriguing class one Friday, my Methodist preacher friend and fellow returning adult named Billy wanted me to share with him what he had missed.  The professor for the class was absence and had one of his secretaries in his place to have us do some busy work.  Billy and I decided that we would ask the secretary if we could go to the business lounge where I could “catch” Billy up on the interpretations of the poems.

I will never for get the look on her face and her answer.  The look was one of “I don’t believe a word you are saying” and the response was “sure you do.”  “You are trying to get out of class to talk about football.”

I guess Billy and I did look a little bit too much masculine and not dainty enough to be reading poetry.  She did let us go, but I do not think she was totally convinced.  Billy and I did make an “A” on the test regardless of what the secretary thought.

For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them (Ephesians 2:10, KJV).

The Greek word that Paul used for workmanship is poiema, the word we use for poem.  Bracelets, art, and poetry are creations of the artist.  What does that say about God and us?

"Miss Myrtle"

The obituary in the Clanton Advertiser stated, “Myrtle Mary Littleton, 73, of Clanton died Saturday, July 7, at her residence.”  Hundreds of men, women, boys, and girls knew her as “Miss Myrtle”. She had a heavy British accent even though she lived in Clanton, Alabama most of her life.  She was determined to maintain her accent as she taught English to her pupils at the Clanton Middle School.

She influenced everyone involved in Youth Rallies in Chilton County from the 1970’s to the new millennium.  Dr. Charles Christmas, retired Director of Missions, says of her, ““Miss Myrtle” was truly gifted of God to work with youth. The best evidence of this was that she had this excellent relationship and leadership even into her retirement years. She adjusted to change over the years like the old slogan, “anchored to the Rock but geared to the times.””

She never seemed old because she surrounded herself with youth.  She was timeless and tireless in her efforts to teach children about Jesus.  As Vacation Bible School Director for Chilton Association, I had “Miss Myrtle” on the team.  She hated doing the skits, but the skit was everyone’s favorite and she made it very funny with her British accent.  She petitioned to eliminate the skit each year, but the people wanted it and it was vital for the energy of the clinic so she did it.

When the Associational youth went on mission each summer, she required them to attend the Associational VBS clinics.  She took them to teach VBS to South Dakota, Texas, Wyoming, and Massachusetts and other places in which Alabama Baptist had partnerships each summer.

She sponsored monthly Saturday night youth rallies, summer Sunday nights in the park, area-wide youth revivals, college/career beach ministry, and training events for church youth leaders to learn and improve skills.  Evangelist Scott Dawson preached one of his first sermons at a youth event led by “Miss Myrtle”.  She provided many young preachers the opportunity to get valuable experience.  She also had some well-known speakers.

One night at one of her “Great Days in May” event Coach Tommy Bowden, then assistant at Auburn and later at Clemson as head coach told “Miss Myrtle” that he would be like to speak at one the events.  Now, you have to understand that “Miss Myrtle” did not know the coach.  She taught English, not football.  With that heavy British accent, she asked Coach Bowden, “Who are you and what do you do?”

Everyone standing near the conversation had a look of disbelief and absurdity.  Here is the coach famous for the “Tommy Gun” offense wanting to preach and share his testimony with hundreds of youth, children, and parents free of charge.  Most times people of his stature charge for events.

Coach Bowden replied, “I coach football at Auburn.”  That did not impress “Miss Myrtle.”  She would not allow just anyone to speak to her youth.  She had every event planned in minute detail.

I do not remember the exact words but “Miss Myrtle” asked something like, what do you have to say and what credentials do you have to say it.  It was hilarious and awkward time.  Coach Bowden did speak and everyone enjoyed his testimony and there were those who accepted the Lord.  He signed many autographs that night for those who knew him.

“Miss Myrtle” was very generous with her time, energy, and money.  She attended every event in Baptist life in Chilton Association.  She was a Christian Energizer Bunny.  On mission projects, she would provide motherly love for the homesick, mild, but wise counsel to the discourteous, and money to youth who may have not carried enough money to spend the week.

Her success was that she was always behind the scene.  She was not upfront but always in charge.  She encouraged those with talents to exercise them.  In her passing she passed the Gospel torch to pastors, youth minister, ministers of music, deacons, Sunday School teachers, VBS workers and countless others she discipled as youth.

. . . Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord (Matthew 25:21KJV).

“Miss Myrtle” was not perfect, none of us are.  She was faithful because Jesus made a difference in her life.  She made a difference in the loves of others including yours truly.  Did I forget to mention that she was a volunteer over thirty years?

The Three Monkeys of see no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil

Polistes Carolina, Vespula vulgaris, Dolichovespula maculate, Apis mellifera, and Bombus terrestris are terrible little creatures.  Their very presence strikes fear into most people.  Some people face death as these creatures buzz around them.  They are red wasps, yellow jackets, hornets, honey bees, and bumble bees.

The other day I had to rid an eve of a nest of polistes or red wasps.  As I bravely approached the nest with a can of wasp spray, I remembered what my daddy always said when big boys were picking on me.  Yes, I was a runt at one time.  He said, “Son, size don’t matter, a guinea wasp can make a cow run.”  They can make this oversized runt run also.  Anecdotal evidence suggests that Red Wasp stings feel more painful than stings from other Paper Wasp species.  I have had my share of stings.  I know that some people must carry an epinephrine pen because bee stings are fatal for them.  Fortunately, I do not need one.

My mind returned to 1960 at the eve of our house.  My daddy started building our house in the early to mid 1950’s.  Before he completed it, we moved to Illinois for three years and then returned back living with an Aunt until daddy completed the house.  You can imagine how a construction site looks after a three-year absence.  The eves of the house were full of red wasp nests.

Under the eve of the house was a huge red wasp nest.  It was full of red-orange death.  My Grandpaw Chapman used the larvae from the wasp nests to bream fish.  I watched him take a long stick and knock down a nest.  It looked like fun for a seven-year-old.  A short time later, I took a long stick and punched the orange-red covered nest.  It is hard to explain what happened next, but with the speed of a platoon of kamikaze dive-bombers, red wasps confused my sandy blond hair for a rival wasp gang buzzing the eve of the house for territorial rights.  Grandpaw did not have this problem.

I learned that day that red wasps are territorial and sting when provoked.  That evening I understood what it meant to be a knot head.  I had wasp stings all over my head.

Since that morning I have been chased down or either stung by honey bees that do not like being disturbed by a starting diesel John Deer tractor, hornets that do not like their nest being vibrated by an injector killing the their tree house, yellow jackets of the same tree that do not approve of the roots of their tree being jarred, and bumble bees that hate the roar of a bush hog trimming their yard.

I went to a friend’s house and a heinous monster greeted us.  Actually, the heinous monster was my friend whose face honeybees had distorted and his eyes swollen shut.  His dad and brother had been robbing a bee gum.  The younger brother did not like an itty, bitty honeybee buzzing around his nose.  Warned by his dad and brother not to provoke the bee, the bee unnerved the younger brother and he did an uh oh! Yep, he swatted at the bee knocking on his dad’s lip.

Honeybees seek revenge when humans steal their honey and take swats at their workers. The next day, a Sunday, was a humorous day for my friend’s household.  The swatting dad had huge lips, my friend had swollen eyes, and the younger brother, the one that escaped without a sting, had swollen ears for hearing the bee raid over and over.  I could not help but laugh.  My friend, his dad, and younger brother looked like the three monkeys of see no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil.  The evil was stealing itty, bitty bee honey.

With all those stinging thoughts, I readied my can of spray just like  a gun slinging cowboy flexing his fingers before a gunfight.  With the speed of a darting bee, I brutally executed those red stinging carriers of death.  One by one they dropped.  One last desperado hid behind the nest waiting to get retribution for his fallen comrades.  When he moved, I got him and he too floated harmlessly to the ground.  I blew the nozzle of the can and sang, “Another One Bites the Dust Uh Huh.”

O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?  The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law.  But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ (I Corinthians 15:55-57 KJV).

Hogs and Hoppers

Discussions while sitting around a dinner table after a funeral can be very interesting.  The funeral was for Raymond, a former minister of music of at the church I pastored in Clanton.  He became a mentor to me for the five years we served together.  It was an honor to participate in his funeral and comfort the family and friends.

Sharing memories together at the table, the conversation quickly turned to the aches and pains of growing old.  We talked of knee pains and replacements.  One nephew-in-law talked of his foot stress and early retirement.  There was talk of all the medicines, which most of us could not pronounce.  A nephew said he had heart trouble and that his doctors wanted to know what medicines his cardiologist prescribed.  He said he did not have a cardiologist and did not take any medicines.

The nephew said that he was born with the defect and had a valve from a pig implanted to replace his defective valve.  I asked since the transplant did he have a craving for corn.  I can be a smart aleck at times.  He joked back and said he had told his son that he craved corn and could no longer eat pork.

Someone asked him if the cardiologist told him not to eat the pork.  The nephew said, “No, now that I had a pig valve, it is hard to eat my fellow pigs’ flesh.”  This was ironic since the church was serving the family pork barbecue.  Yes, he was eating his fellow pigs.

Pork is a main staple in the South, especially during Independence Day activities.  My brother is cooking a whole hog for a community gathering July 1-2.  He said he was starting at midnight and cooking the hog all night.

It is going to be a fun filled weekend.  My brothers and I are the main attraction for the community event.  Originally, it was called the Hopper Brothers Reunion, because all three of us serve outside Chilton County and our home church wanted us to return to share our talents.  We sing, play musical instruments, write songs, and generally have a lot of fun together.

There will be the hog, chicken quarters, and all the fixin’s.  There will be singing, playing, cousins, friends, and games Saturday from three in the afternoon until who knows when.  The pastor there said he had “blowup” slides for the kids.  It is an outside event at a friend’s farm.  Plan B will utilize my home church’s Family Life Center.  With all the rain, Plan B may be a reality.  Sunday, The Hopper Trio will be leading in Worship.  It is a “you all” come event.

When I think about hogs, I am reminded the story of Jesus and the swine.

So the devils besought him (Jesus), saying, If thou cast us out, suffer us to go away into the herd of swine.  And he said unto them, Go. And when they were come out, they went into the herd of swine: and, behold, the whole herd of swine ran violently down a steep place into the sea, and perished in the waters.  And they that kept them fled, and went their ways into the city, and told every thing, and what was befallen to the possessed of the devils. And, behold, the whole city came out to meet Jesus: and when they saw him, they besought him that he would depart out of their coasts (Matthew 8:31-34 KJV).

This was the invention of “deviled ham” and it brings back memories of my days as a contract negotiator.  Businessmen more concerned with profit than with the souls of people, asked Jesus to leave.  I experienced something similar. 

I was involved in a toxic waste issue at the cement plant in Calera.  Our local union supported a community group that was protesting the burning of toxic waste in the cement kilns.  The men in the plant were concerned with the waste being to dangerous to handle and process.  This community group made the Chamber of Commerce for the city of Pelham very uncomfortable.  They we so upset that members of the Chamber and a delegation of business men approached me and tried to convince me to back the union off because it was causing no small stir when trying to bring new businesses into Shelby County.  They had very strong, threating language for me.

I looked this group of professionals dead into the eye and said, “The lives of the men and women in the plant and people and the communities in which they live are more important that making millions of dollars especially when businesses do more to harm than to help.  The lives of people are more important than immoral monies.”

This last time I read the Bible, which is daily; Jesus is more concerned with the souls of people than sales and profit.

As we celebrated Independence Day in days of COVID 19, let us remember that men and women sacrificed and died for our freedom and the establishment of a moral society and government.  Pray for those entities that would misuse freedom to destroy lives for gain.  Pray that our churches to find those that sin has bound and share the freedom of Jesus in His redemptive blood and give hope.

I HAD THE BEST TIME OF MY LIFE

From my devotion  I Will Speak Using Stories 

            Have you ever wondered what you will be doing when the Lord returns? Some will be working, some sleeping, some praying, some crying, and some will be doing inappropriate things. Those not ready for His coming will not have time to get ready.

            I know that I have been some places where I've prayed, “Lord, please do not come again while I am here and in this predicament.” I know full well that when the Lord comes, there will be some very embarrassed believers. It is important to be ready and not be caught off-guard when the trumpet sounds.

            I had a taste of not being ready one year during plum-picking time in Alabama. It was a sultry spring afternoon, when by brother-in-law drove into our yard.  The kids, and I were on the back of my old GMC pickup, picking plums.

            Now, if you have ever picked plums, you understand how nasty this job can be. We were covered in sweat and plum juice, making us giant sticky pads for collecting dust, pollen, dirt, and any other particle that might be floating in the air. We were a pretty sticky sight.

            My brother-in-law wanted us to ride down and visit his other brother-in-law. My brother-in-law had the distinction of having two brothers-in-law in the ministry. It was his other brother-in-law’s birthday.

            My brother-in-law could not accept no for an answer. We had to go celebrate, so we all loaded into his pickup and headed out to surprise the birthday boy. Two grown men and five kids were in back of the pickup, when en route the pickup started making a rattling noise. My sister-in-law stopped the truck, and, when I raised the hood, I was subjected to another sticky substance: antifreeze steam.

            My brother-in-law is not mechanically inclined, which meant he had no tools in his truck. We were close to our destination, so we waited for the engine to cool and then continued to the house of my brother-in-law’s brother-in-law.

            When we got there, they were having a party; everyone was dressed for a party except us. Remember, we were in work clothes. I wore shorts, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes—all covered in plum juice, sweat, dust, dirt, and antifreeze. We were all embarrassed.

            The birthday boy’s family did not know we were coming and were as the virgins were with no oil when the bridegroom returned. They did not have any food, cake, or ice cream for guests. We were uncomfortable as we sat around in our sticky attire.

            After the birthday party, we went outside to work on the pickup. My brother-in-law’s brother-in-law is not mechanically inclined either, but he did own some pliers and a screwdriver. I diagnosed the problem as a frozen thermostat. My brother-in-law asked how something frozen could cause the pickup to run hot. I explained that the mechanism that controlled the water flow had not opened, and this had restricted the flow of the water that cooled the engine. Unfortunately, the tools we had were not those we needed, but I did use the screwdriver to remove the hose above the thermostat. It had some pressure and spewed antifreeze on me.

            By this time, I had plum juice, sweat, dirt, dust, more antifreeze, grease, black residue from an old water hose—and a very irritated brother-in-law. I calmed him down by assuring him I could use the screwdriver to remove the hose and to punch a hole in the thermostat, thus allowing the coolant to flow and cool the engine.

            Then, right on cue, a spring shower began in the Alabama twilight. Now, on top of everything else, I was wet and contemplating a twenty-five-mile ride in the back of a pickup with all the kids. Just then, my brother-in-law’s brother-in-law returned with a blue tarp that was covered in dirt, dust, and mildew. Now I had mildew on me.

            My brother-in-law elected to drive the pickup, thinking he could do a better job at keeping it cool than his wife had. We had fun under the tarp, but I feared we would be pulled over by the police suspecting we were illegal refugees. Instead, my brother-in-law pulled over because the pickup was overheating again.

            He was in a panic. It was dark and raining; we had no tools, and we were in a small town, which rolled the streets up after dark. I directed him to a closed filling (gag) station, which had an overhead canopy and some lighting. He was exasperated, so I sent him in search of something to get water. While he was searching, I took the tire tool (some call it jack handle) and used the flattened end as a screwdriver to undo the clamp on the hose. Then I used the tire tool as a punch to destroy the thermostat. I replaced everything and filled the radiator with water, and we started back home.

            My brother-in-law was amazed at what I had done. I just wanted to get home. It had stopped raining and an Alabama fog filled the night. The kids and I, wet, cold, and shivering, sang, “B-I-.N-G-O, and Bingo was his name-o,” as those enjoying the warmth in the cab watched the varmints come alive and scurry along the highway.

            When we pulled into our driveway, I was so happy to see the house and think of the warm shower waiting for me. My brother-in-law, who was on cloud nine, said, “I had the best time of my life.” I could not believe what I was hearing. I could only think, Lord, I know how people with sin in their lives are going feel when you come again. I felt so dirty. Thank God for cleansing through the blood of Jesus.

For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first: Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord. (I Thessalonians 4:16–17, KJV)

Afterward came also the other virgins, saying, Lord, Lord, open to us. But he answered and said, Verily I say unto you, I know you not. Watch therefore, for ye know neither the day nor the hour wherein the Son of man cometh. (Matthew 25:11–13, KJV)

For this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins. (Matthew 26:28, KJV)

In whom we have redemption through his blood, even the forgiveness of sins. (Colossians 1:14, KJV)

But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship one with another, and the blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin. (I John 1:7, KJV)

Describe a time in your life when you felt dirty—physically and spiritually.



What did you do to get clean?



How did you feel when you asked the Lord to cleanse you?





Prayer: Father Incarnate, You provided one way to eternity through the shedding of Your blood, the cleansing power that washes white as snow. Thank You for salvation. Help us remember the cost of Calvary and the power of the Resurrection. Increase our faith as we ask Your forgiveness.

“The Only Color Here is Green”

I had the privilege of working at a cement plant in Calera, Alabama for eighteen years.  Old timers referred to it as Southern Cement, one of the many names given to each with each corporate change.  It was Martin Marietta Cement when I started in 1976 and Blue Circle Inc when I left in 1994.

The cement industry is hot, nasty, dangerous, but paid good money.  I had literally begged to get a job there.  It was one of a handful of companies in my home area that young men sought to have.  I was the last man hired in October of 1976 and would be the junior man for five years.  There were 225 men with no women inside the plant.  The plant manager had a female secretary.

Employees of Southern had status in Central Alabama.  The plant is near the geographical center of the state and provided employment for men from Bibb, Chilton, Dallas, Jefferson, Perry, and Shelby Counties.  These men would become my brothers and the plant our plant.  It was Union and we were Local Union 50537 with one hundred percent membership and held monthly meetings.

Almost like an exclusive club, my brothers at the plant wanted to know how I got hired.  If you were hired, it was not by application, but by knowing and having someone on the inside.  I did know several men there and went to church with some.  I learned early in life that it is “not what you know, but who you know.”

The employee ratio was sixty percent black and forty percent white, but I learned immediately that the only color at the plant was green (MONEY).  Racial problems were non-existent.  I remember one brother yelled, “Hey boy come here.”  My brother responded, “There are only two kinda of boys, White Boys and Cowboys.”  When the table was turned, my brother would reply, “There are only Black Boys and Cowboys.”  Everyone would laugh, hug, and remain brothers.

Around 1988, came the first new hiring in ten years.  Hiring was non-discriminatory and the 60/40 ratio continued.  One of the new hires was a troublemaker.  I worked with him and tried to help him.  He was lazy with an attitude “You owe me.”  He would not work during his probationary time.  I told him that they were monitoring him.  He told me that he did not care.

Serving in the Union as Grievance Chairman, the Human Resource Manager asked me what I thought of the new hire near the end of his probation.  I told him that it would be a mistake because the man was trouble.  The human resource man told me that several supervisors and employees expressed the same concern. 

One of our black supervisors petitioned to hire the man.  I told the human resource man that it was a mistake and that when trouble arose that I would have to represent the new hire.

The new hire wasted no time causing trouble.  He filed a grievance over an issue that he was in the wrong.  I went to him to discuss the grievance and he told me that he did not want a white man representing him.  He told me that I would not fight for him because he was black.  I told him the only color a in the plant was “green” and I did not care if he was purple, pink, or yellow.  I told him that no one else felt the way he did.  I reminded him that union meetings were predominately black and that I had been elected president and for several year been elected as grievance chairman by my brothers.  I told him that should tell him something.

He caused so much disturbance that by black brothers gave him a “belt whipping” in the company showers.  They told him the only color in the plant was green, there was no racial trouble, and that there would not be any trouble.

Our “troubled brother” faked an injury and sued the company.  The human resource man summoned me to his office, told me that they had been building a file against the man, and had evidence that he faked his injury and committed fraud against the insurance company.  He said he should have listened to me in the beginning.  He did not understand the unique relationship between the men in the plant.  We were brother and had unity as evidenced during contract negotiations.

I miss my brothers since retiring. Many have gone to be with Lord.  I see the surviving occasionally, especially at annual picnics.  We will always be brothers even as the world around us becomes racially combative.



Where there is neither Greek nor Jew, circumcision nor uncircumcision, Barbarian, Scythian, bond nor free: but Christ is all and in all. Colossians 3:11 KJV

Heritage Not Hate

I inherited my love for history from my daddy.  Dad loved antiques and loved to talk of the way things were.  Visiting Perry County Alabama dad would point out old sawmills, gristmills, and whiskey stills in places where grass, bushes, and weeds covered.  We visited Old Cahaba, the first capital of Alabama when there was nothing but old foundations and pieces of brick.  We would visit the Brierfield Iron Works with only remnants of coke and broken-down furnaces.  At one time Brierfield was the third largest city in Alabama.  I had the honor and privilege of pastoring the Historical Brierfield Baptist Church.

I fell in love with Alabama history in the fourth grade.  The Massacre at Fort Mims, Andrew Jackson and the Battle of Horseshoe Bend, Daniel Pratt and the cotton mills of Prattville were interesting.  I loved Alabama history under Dr. Jesse Jackson and Dr. Justin Fuller at the University of Montevallo.  When Dr. Jackson described the sawing in the removal of General Stonewall Jackson’s arm sounded as an Angel playing a violin was so vivid, I felt as though I was there.  When Dr. Fuller talked of Montevallo and its role in Wilson’s Raiders and General Nathan B. Forrest and the battles of the Brierfield Ironworks, at Ebenezer Church in Stanton, and Selma it made me proud of the men and women that believed in the Constitution of the United States that they would fight for Alabama in the War of Northern Aggression just as General Robert E. Lee had for the State of Virginia.

Each year Dr. Fuller in his “Introduction to History” class would poll students as to their greatest historical figure, Jesus Christ excluded.  For years the number one answer was General Robert E. Lee.  There is not another general with Lee’s integrity, faith, and character.  It is a shame that those ignorant of history are tearing down General Lee’s monuments along with other monuments that are testimonies to our heritage.

General Lee did not own slaves and turned down Lincoln as commander of the Union Army to stand with Virginia.  Lincoln confiscated Lee's farm at Arlington turning into a cemetery.  Lee suffered defeat with Christian character and it is a disgrace to dishonor him and others who took up the Southern Cross to defend state rights which is part of our Constitution of the United States.

I am proud to be an American and pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and the Republic for which it stands.  I get chills when the National Anthem is played and I stand at attention with my hand over my heart.  The United States is imperfect because it is made of imperfect people, but it is the greatest free nation in the world and if idiots want to protest, it is their right, but remember I have rights also.

I think is ironic that those that are government assisted and do not work are the ones that protest while those that work pay for them to march.  It is also moronic that protests follow at the heels of a perpetrator being arrested and being mistreated.  I often wonder what the "victim" was doing to be arrested in the first place.  As a lawyer friend of mine said of divorce, “There is the husband's story, the wife’s story and what actually happened.”  It is true today in the irresponsible journalism being spewed from liberal media.  There is the arrestees' story, the police’s story, what the irresponsible reporter tells us that happened, and what actually happened.

I am proud to be from Alabama.  I love our state flag.  The is something about St. Andrews Cross, the red X on the white background.  Being from Scot-Irish ancestry I am doubly proud of our flag.  It reminds me that the message of Christ remains the only home for mankind.  Morality cannot be legislated.  There will always remain cultural differences and injustices as long as sin reigns and exists in the heart of humankind.

I am proud of the Confederate Flag and my Southern heritage.  I hate slavery and those that initiated it will suffer the consequences.  The fact is that African tribal lords practiced it, as did societies throughout the history of the world. Every ethos has suffered the sin of slavery.  It exists today in human trafficking, forced labor, sexual exploitation, and sweatshops.  It is estimated that there are 40 million people in some form of slavery, but today the target is something that is history.

I have a Sons of the Confederacy tag on my pickup truck.  I have a Rebel cap. I have several confederate flags and the more people tell me I cannot have one, the more I will buy.  It is part of my heritage and my form of protest and my right.  I love to see the giant Confederate flag on I65 north of Montgomery.

Social issues will remain if every Confederate Monument is removed.  Cultural differences will continue until the Lord returns.  Today it is Southern heritage, tomorrow it may be national monuments.  Will the American Vietnamese protest the Memorial Wall?   Will American Japanese boycott the Pearl Harbor Memorial?  I think you see my direction.  I saw a cartoon of the Statue of Liberty hiding wondering if she were next.

We create monuments to remind us of history.  Those that do not learn from history are destined to repeat it just as the Hebrews did throughout the Old Testament.

Remove not the ancient landmark, which thy fathers have set. (Proverbs 22:28)

Why, seeing times are not hidden from the Almighty, do they that know him not see his days? [Some] remove the landmarks; they violently take away flocks, and feed [thereof]. They drive away the ass of the fatherless, they take the widow's ox for a pledge. (Job 24:1-3)